


Hunting Ground

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:12:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: When Constance asks the musketeers for help finding a missing friend, they discover a string of disappearances and sinister intentions. But can they apprehend the culprits before one of them accidentally becomes the next victim?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short little mystery/adventure/hurt-comfort of four chapters. I'm still following my posting schedule of Saturdays and Wednesdays.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

 

The screech and clang of steel was a rhythmic backdrop in the garrison yard. Aramis watched the sparring dance like it was a show as he munched on an apple and waited for Porthos and d'Artagnan to finish their debrief with Treville upstairs in the captain's office. Athos was off somewhere else, probably planning the next round of training for their young Gascon. Though he was barely back from accompanying Porthos on a delivery, there was no rest for the musketeer apprentice.

Aramis's attention wavered from the training yard as he caught sight of Constance entering the garrison. He pushed away from the support beam he'd been leaning against and walked over to greet her.

"Constance. Come to see if d'Artagnan is back yet?" he said cheekily. "He's only just arrived and is still debriefing the captain."

He frowned when that didn't earn him an indignant huff or minor slap.

Constance was wringing her hands in her skirts. "I need your help."

He arched a curious brow and gestured for her to come take a seat at the table beneath the balcony. "D'Artagnan's almost finished with Treville." He spotted Athos coming out of the armory and caught the lieutenant's eye, cocking his head to beckon him over.

"Madame Bonacieux," Athos greeted as he joined them.

"Athos," she replied with a polite nod.

The door above creaked open and Aramis looked up to catch d'Artagnan's and Porthos's attention, waving them to come down.

"Constance," d'Artagnan said in surprise, a delighted gleam lighting his eyes. But it sobered just as quickly as he took in her grim expression. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't know who else to come to," she began, making whatever it was sound very grave indeed. "A friend has gone missin'. No one's seen 'im since last week and I'm worried. This isn't like Eustace."

Aramis exchanged a look with Athos. A wayward citizen wasn't exactly in their jurisdiction.

"Friend?" d'Artagnan repeated, the spark of notable jealousy hard to miss.

Constance bristled. "Yes, friend. We've known each other since we were children. 'E's like one of my brothers." She skewered him with a pointed glare. "Surely you can understand that."

The boy ducked his gaze abashedly.

"Perhaps he had business outside of Paris," Athos suggested.

"'E wouldn't leave wit'out telling me," Constance insisted. "And he was last seen at a tavern in the southern district last Thursday. 'E never came home that night."

No one said anything. Athos's expression remained unconvinced, and Constance stood up in a huff.

"Fine, if you won't help—"

Aramis reached out a hand to stop her. "It can't hurt to look into it," he said, throwing a questioning glance at the others.

"Of course," d'Artagnan quickly put in. "What was the name of the tavern?"

"The Boar's Head," she replied.

"And your friend," Aramis asked, "Eustace…?"

"Robineau."

He nodded. "All right, we'll see if we can find anything."

Constance lifted her head and gave a stiff nod. "Thank you." With that, she took her leave.

"We can hardly go chasing all over Paris for one man," Athos said once she'd departed. "Especially without evidence of foul play."

"But how can we find evidence if we don't ask any questions?" Aramis countered. "D'Artagnan and I might as well make inquiries. It won't take too long."

Athos sighed. "Very well. We were to be on patrol duty later anyway."

Aramis nodded and turned to d'Artagnan, who'd had no chance to change out of his dust-laden clothes from the ride that morning. "No rest for the weary," he quipped.

D'Artagnan shook his head but didn't complain, and together they headed off to the southern district.

"Constance seemed very worried," d'Artagnan brought up as they walked through the streets of Paris.

"Yes, and a week's absence is not encouraging," Aramis replied. "Though if her friend was the victim of a robbery, the authorities would have notified the family by now."

"So is that a good sign or bad that they haven't?"

"I really don't know." There were any number of misfortunes that could befall someone walking the streets at night, though to vanish entirely was something a bit more unusual.

After some searching and asking for directions, they found the Boar's Head, one of the more shabby looking establishments in Paris. This early in the day, the place was mostly empty, save for the resident drunkard snoring in a dark corner. The tavern keeper was behind the bar, a portly man with a thin mustache and white hair, wiping down the permanently stained counter. He looked up at their entrance, eyeing them warily.

"Monsieur," Aramis greeted. "We are from the King's Musketeers and are looking for a patron of yours, a Eustace Robineau."

The proprietor snorted. "I 'ave lots o' customers. Can't be expected ta remember 'em all."

"But surely you remember your regulars," Aramis pressed.

"Aye. And a Eustace Robineau ain't one o' 'em. Whatever 'e's wanted fer, I've no part of it."

"Our interest has nothing to do with illegal activities."

"Good, 'cause I 'ave no part innit," the man repeated. "An' I want no trouble."

Aramis heard d'Artagnan bite back a sigh.

"Have you had any trouble recently?" the boy asked. "Specifically last Thursday? Problems between patrons?"

The man shrugged one shoulder. "Not more so 'an usual. Scuffles now an' then between drunks. Nothin' serious."

"Problems with one of your non-regulars?" Aramis persisted. He got a scowl in return.

"No. Now if that's all, I've got work ta do." The man threw his dirty rag on the counter and shuffled through the back door.

Aramis exchanged a disappointed look with d'Artagnan. So much for finding answers for Constance. They made their way back outside.

"Should we come back tonight?" d'Artagnan asked. "Talk to some of these regulars?"

Aramis pursed his mouth. It was quite a trek from the garrison, which would equal a late night for them. But he'd told Constance they would try to help, and he couldn't in good conscience give up this easily. He imagined it was the same for d'Artagnan, who had a lot more reason to be invested in helping the fair Madame Bonacieux.

"I think that's our only next course of action," he replied.

"Pst," someone hissed from behind.

They both turned to find a young woman pressed against the corner of the tavern at the back alley. When they met her gaze, she nodded and beckoned sharply.

"Mademoiselle," Aramis said, removing his hat. "How may we be of service?"

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. "I 'eard you talkin' wit' my father. About a missin' man?"

Aramis and d'Artagnan shared a look.

"You know him?" d'Artagnan asked.

She shook her head. "No. But he ain't the first. Others 'ave disappeared. People I know. People I'm used ta seein' on certain corners, now gone."

Aramis's brows rose a fraction. That was…unexpected. "Has there been an investigation?"

She shrugged. "Family members 'ave asked around, but there's just…no trace." She bit her lip. "You'll investagate though?"

Aramis was certainly piqued and he nodded, placing his hat back on his head. "We will. Thank you."

She gave another nod and then darted back toward the door to sneak back into the tavern, probably before her father caught her speaking with them.

"This isn't a good sign, is it?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line. "I think not."

They'd gone searching for information as to one man's whereabouts and come back with even more unanswered questions.

o.0.o

While Athos was not unsympathetic to Constance's plight, he was pragmatic about their ability to help. He'd given d'Artagnan and Aramis some leeway to look into it, not expecting much. Their report about several disappearances, however, proved concerning, and Treville agreed when they'd passed on the information of their cursory inquiry to him. Now they had an official investigation on their hands, and Athos and Porthos had returned with d'Artagnan and Aramis to the southern district to try to determine who exactly had gone missing and how many.

This time Athos questioned the keeper of the Boar's Head, who still insisted he didn't want any trouble and therefore knew nothing, while Aramis surreptitiously made eye contact with the man's daughter and then slipped outside to meet with her out back. Athos and Porthos kept the tavern keeper occupied until she snuck back in, hopefully having been more helpful.

"Thank you for your help, monsieur," Athos said with enunciated wryness and headed out with Porthos.

Aramis and d'Artagnan were waiting.

"What did you find out?" Athos asked.

"We got a few names of people who haven't been seen in the past several weeks," d'Artagnan replied. "A couple more who supposedly disappeared were beggars, but we can't know if that's related or if they just moved on from their regular corners."

Athos nodded. "We'll split up, check with the families of those you do have names for, see if they've turned up since."

They divvied up the names and then set off, Athos with d'Artagnan. Their first stop was a tanner whose nephew had reportedly vanished. However, since d'Artagnan had speculated that the tavern keeper's daughter was a bit taken with the young man, there could be a multitude of reasons he'd suddenly become scarce.

"Monsieur LeMahieu?" Athos called, diverting the tanner's attention from his work.

LeMahieu squinted up at them as they entered his shop. "Yes?"

"I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. This is d'Artagnan. We've received a report that your nephew, Bertin, has gone missing and have come to verify that."

LeMahieu frowned. "Why would the King's Musketeers care about a lazy tanner apprentice?"

"We're investigating a number of disappearances," Athos replied. "Is your nephew here?"

The man hesitated. "No…he took off two weeks ago and I 'aven't seen 'im since. Figured the ungrateful lout decided to seek his fortune in the Americas. But…you're sayin' somethin' happened to 'im?"

"We have no evidence to suggest that," d'Artagnan put in. "Right now we're just trying to substantiate that there have been disappearances."

"Am I to assume you didn't check the city morgue?" Athos asked.

LeMahieu blanched. "You think I should?"

"No," d'Artagnan said quickly. "If you give us a description of Bertin, we'll do that. Like we said, we're just making inquiries right now."

LeMahieu looked uncertain but went ahead and gave them a description of his nephew, including a birthmark on his left arm that would help make him easier to identify.

"You'll- you'll tell me if he's…"

"We will," Athos assured him.

He bid the man goodbye and he and d'Artagnan exited the workshop.

"We still have two more names to check," the boy said, sounding grim about what they might find.

"LeMahieu is correct that his nephew could have very well decided he did not want to be a tanner and left," Athos pointed out.

D'Artagnan just gave him a look.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Athos warned.

"There's jumping to conclusions and there's trusting your gut."

Athos couldn't say anything to that. For he was right.

o.0.o

Their next stop laid to rest that a second man was missing, though the news that he'd fallen ill and died wasn't something to lift the mood. The third person they checked on had, in fact, disappeared without a trace. He was the middle son in a family of five, and after his mother had checked the morgue and found nothing, they'd written him off.

Athos and d'Artagnan then rendezvoused with Aramis and Porthos across the street from the Boar's Head to share what they'd found. It was not encouraging. They had a total of four confirmed disappearances.

"So now we check the morgue?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes," Athos replied.

"Always so much fun to visit," Aramis said with a sigh.

"At least one family didn't find their missing relative there," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"While I agree four missing men—"

"Confirmed missin'," Porthos interrupted. "Who knows how many poor were snatched off the streets wit'out anyone noticin'."

"Confirmed missing," Athos amended, "rouses suspicion, they may not be related at all. Any number of misfortunes can befall someone in this city."

D'Artagnan frowned. "We may not find Constance's friend alive, will we?"

Aramis clapped him on the back. "Don't despair yet. It's possible he found himself in trouble and is in the Chatelet for some offense."

D'Artagnan huffed. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? If I have to tell Constance her childhood friend is in prison—"

"There is no use speculating," Athos cut in. "Let's start with the morgue and then go from there."

They set off, winding through the streets of Paris until they reached their destination. The morgue was full as usual. As Athos had said, there were a great many misfortunes that could befall someone—stumbling home drunk and falling into the Seine, being robbed and murdered, or engaging in criminal activities themselves and being arrested.

"We're looking for several individuals," Athos told Poupart and proceeded to deliver a description of each of the men they'd confirmed missing. A few of them were rather average looking, but even so the investigator said he hadn't had any fitting those descriptions come in recently.

"What about a few weeks ago?" Aramis asked.

Poupart scoffed. "You expect me ta remember? You know how many bodies get brought in 'ere?"

"What about a young man about my height, dark hair? He has a birthmark on his left arm about here." Athos indicated where LeMahieu had described. "He went missing no more than two weeks ago."

"Eh, maybe rings a bell. I'll check the ledger." He went to the far wall where his work station was and began flipping through the records.

"We're not gettin' anywhere," Porthos grumbled.

"All these people went missing from different places too," d'Artagnan added. "We don't have a location we could even stake out."

"It does seem like searching for a needle in a haystack," Aramis commented.

"'Ere we go!" Poupart called. "Young man, dark hair, birthmark on 'is left arm." He tapped the page in his ledger book. "No one came lookin' for 'im so he was buried in a potter's field two days ago."

"How did he die?" Athos asked.

"Mauled to death."

The musketeers exchanged a surprised look. That wasn't a very common occurrence.

"Where?" d'Artagnan blurted.

"'E was found in the woods. Nothin' more to tell."

"Where in the woods?" Aramis asked.

"Eh, northeast quarter. A trapper found 'im. Man by the name of Landry."

"Thank you," Athos said, turning to the others. "We'll see if this Landry can show us where he found LeMahieu's nephew."

o.0.o

The trapper was amenable to helping them and explained that game had become sparse in his usual hunting ground, so he'd been searching out new places to set his traps when he'd stumbled across the body. He led the musketeers through the woods toward a dense area where branches snagged at their coats and scratched their faces. It was a very remote spot indeed.

"What would Bertin have been doing all the way out here?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud.

"Are you in business with his uncle, LeMahieu?" Athos asked the trapper.

"No. I's do my business with Toussains on the west end of the city. Didn' know the boy I found." Landry stopped and pointed to the spot where he'd stumbled upon Bertin.

Aramis scanned the ground. "Where's all the blood? If he was attacked by an animal and killed here, there should be more of it." He scuffed his boot through the dirt, which lacked any noticeable rusty tinge.

"It has been two weeks," Porthos pointed out.

"No, 'e's right," Landry spoke up. "There wasn't a whole lot when I found 'im."

"Curious, but hardly conclusive," Athos remarked. He roved his gaze around this spot in the woods, trying to figure out what might have drawn Bertin out here.

"Athos," d'Artagnan called from several yards away where he'd meandered off.

Athos headed toward him, the others following. He drew to a stop when he realized d'Artagnan was staring at the ground, hand covering his mouth. Athos followed his gaze and grimaced at the body. It was barely recognizable, flesh torn and ravaged, the eye sockets emptied by carrion and maggots.

D'Artagnan arched a brow. "Two bodies?"

"Make that three," Aramis said grimly from ten feet away. He also pressed a gloved hand over his mouth and nose.

Athos felt a chill run down his spine. "Check the surrounding area," he ordered.

Landry helped, and after a sweep of the vicinity, they'd found six sets of remains in various stages of decomposition. All appeared to have been mauled, but wild animals didn't come into the city to steal victims away to a single dumping ground.

Athos looked around gravely at the gruesome discovery. "Someone is covering up murder."


	2. Chapter 2

D'Artagnan stood at Constance's shoulder, his heart clenching as a hitched sob finally broke free and she reached a trembling hand toward her friend, lying on the morgue's slab.

"Oh, Eustace." She tenderly touched his brow, and d'Artagnan felt as though he were intruding on a private moment, yet he refused to leave Constance to face this alone. Someone had needed to identify the body and she had insisted.

Her gaze drifted across the bloodstained sheet covering the ghastly wounds. "What happened to 'im?"

"We're not sure," d'Artagnan hedged.

It'd taken hours to cart all the cadavers back to the city and examine them more thoroughly yesterday. Poupart had definitely had his hands full, but he hadn't found any signs of foul play from a human standpoint. Aside from the obvious that those bodies had to have been dropped in the woods by someone.

Constance's shrewd eyes quickly took in the other fresh bodies, all with similarly bloodied coverings. "But it wasn't an accident."

"Most likely not."

She let out another choked sob and d'Artagnan couldn't stand it. He gently turned her around and pulled her into his arms.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

He was ashamed now of his earlier flash of jealousy and would give anything to have been able to return Constance's friend to her whole and hale, for her grief and pain was the last thing he wanted to see.

"I 'ave to tell his family." She tried to push away from him, but it was only a half-hearted attempt and his arms were still embracing her. She leaned back into his comfort.

"I'll go with you."

Constance nodded, composing herself.

D'Artagnan moved his hands to her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "I promise we'll do everything we can to find out what happened and get justice."

It was all he could offer her in this situation. That, and his support when she went to notify Eustace's family of the tragedy that had befallen him.

She nodded again. "I know. Thank you, d'Artagnan."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders sagely and led her out of the morgue. This next part would be just as hard, but he would be there by her side through it all.

o.0.o

"You think people would be more helpful, given how many 'ave gone missin' an' turned up dead," Porthos grumbled as he and Aramis left yet another tavern with no new information. Treville had sent patrols to the southern district in the hopes of discovering a lead, but so far they'd come up empty.

"Or our killer is just that good at not drawing attention," Aramis mused. "No one was aware there had even been murders."

Porthos shook his head. "It's unnatural, killin' like that. No reason behind it."

Murderin' for money, revenge, hate, even just out of temper, those made sense.

"I'm sure there's a reason. Just not one you and I would understand."

Porthos harrumphed. He'd be happy to get this killer off the streets sooner rather than later.

They came upon another tavern and went inside. By now Porthos wasn't expecting much, but Aramis approached the proprietor and introduced himself with his usual charm.

"We're looking into several disappearances that have happened over the past few weeks, all from this district."

The tavern keeper flicked a hooded gaze at them. "Disappearances?" he repeated.

"Murders," Porthos corrected.

The man didn't react to the news, just glanced toward the closed front door. There was no one else in the tavern. Without a word, he set down the goblet he'd been cleaning and moved to the window. Porthos raised a brow at Aramis, who merely shrugged.

The tavern keeper looked out onto the street, then turned around. "When you walk back out, you'll see two men across the street at the butcher's."

"And who are these men?" Aramis asked.

"I don't know their names," the tavern keeper said hurriedly. "Just…if you're lookin' for answers, they'd be a good place to start."

Porthos was ready to intimidate the man into saying more, but Aramis spoke first.

"Very well. Many thanks, monsieur."

Porthos followed him out. "He knows more."

"Perhaps, but in the time it takes for you to convince him to elaborate, our quarry might have vanished," Aramis replied, adjusting his hat in the sun while surreptitiously tossing a look across the street.

Porthos angled himself to the side and tipped his head down, looking out the corner of his eye. There were three men at the butcher's shop, but the one wearing the blood stained apron obviously wasn't who they were interested in. The other two looked to be in their thirties, their cloth common but not unkempt. One had a full beard while the other was scruffy looking. They exchanged coin for a large slab of meat that could feed a small troop. Wrapping up their purchase, they stuffed it into a sack and departed the shop.

Porthos and Aramis stepped into the foot traffic, keeping several paces behind as they followed. Were they looking at a duo of killers? The tavern keeper had certainly insinuated that both merited attention in this investigation. Perhaps Porthos and Aramis could catch them in the act of targeting their next victim and put this whole heinous mess to a close.

Except, as they rounded the next corner, the two men ahead paused, and the one with the beard clapped the other on the shoulder before taking another street.

Porthos exchanged a displeased look with Aramis.

The marksman sighed. "Which one do you want?"

Porthos cocked his head left to indicate the one with the beard. "One livre he leads me to somethin' first?"

Aramis grinned. "As you wish." With a tip of his hat, he hurried to catch up to the other man.

Porthos strode across the street, gaze quickly finding his quarry before the man could give him the slip. Not that he appeared to know he was being followed. Porthos tailed him down several streets before he finally reached his destination—a brothel.

Porthos huffed as the man went inside. Well, so much for finding something interesting. He took up position across the street under an archway, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms as he waited. And waited. And waited some more. Honestly, how long was he going to be in there?

Porthos fidgeted impatiently. He started to wonder whether he should be concerned about the safety of the working girls within the establishment, but none of the victims they'd found had been women. Maybe they'd all visited the brothel at some point and these were some kind of revenge killings for sleeping with a woman someone thought was his alone? That wasn't a question he was gonna ask Constance about her friend though. Unlike Aramis, he didn't appreciate getting slapped.

"Porthos."

He looked up to find Girart and Marcel approaching.

"Weren't you and Aramis patrolling the third quarter?" Girart asked.

He straightened. "Yeah, but we got tipped to two men outside one of the taverns. Unfortunately, they'd split up, so we had to as well." He cocked his head toward the brothel. "I've been waitin' for hours fer 'im to come back out."

The other two musketeers shared an amused glance.

"Well, we haven't found anything," Marcel reported.

Porthos nodded. "Can you head back to the garrison and let Athos know we've got a person o' interest under surveillance?"

"Sure."

"I'll stay in case he moves again," Girart said.

Porthos settled back against the wall as Marcel left. He hoped Aramis was having better luck, even if it was going to cost Porthos that wager.

o.0.o

Aramis followed his man all the way to the edge of the city. There was a row of derelict storehouses, and his target went all the way down to the last one on the block, pulling out a key and entering through the main door.

Aramis crept along the side of the buildings, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for signs of anyone else around. The area seemed quite vacant. There wasn't any obvious reason why his suspect would be all the way out here. Looked like Aramis was going to win that livre.

He approached the door and gave another look around before pulling out his set of lock picks. He didn't often use them, but Porthos had insisted he learn the art and carry the tools with him, so he did. His efficiency lacked something to be desired though, and if Porthos had been looking over his shoulder, he would have gotten quite the lecture on proper technique.

Still, he finally heard the lock click and eased the door open, listening for sounds within. It was quiet. He pocketed his tools and slipped inside, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, though oxidized windows high up let in a muted amount of light. Aramis roved his gaze over the interior. It appeared to have been renovated from a typical storehouse design, with balconies along the upper portions of the perimeter walls. There was a fence around the middle of the warehouse where the ground seemed to have caved in.

Aramis moved closer, pulling up short as he realized a pit had been dug out of the floor. Metal spikes ringed the edges to keep whatever was inside from climbing out. And what was inside was a massive brown mound, bristling fur rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Aramis skirted the edge to get a better look. It was a bear. One back paw was chained to a post in the ground, and there were various splotches of rust colored stains in the dirt.

A horrendous suspicion was forming in his mind, but before he could put an actual thought to it, something hard and heavy struck him from behind, and he blacked out before hitting the ground.

o.0.o

Porthos was getting grumpy. He and Girart had been standing outside the brothel for hours and had missed supper. Was their target making a round to every single working girl in the place? Because this was just getting ridiculous. If Porthos didn't have a clear view of the next street where the back alley exited to, he'd think the man had given them the slip.

Girart scratched at his head, brushed the brim of his hat on his pant leg, and went back to watching.

Footsteps briefly drew their attention, and Porthos pushed away from the wall as Marcel and Athos walked up to them.

"Have you learned anything?" Athos asked.

"No," Porthos groused. "Man hasn't come out since he arrived 'ere. What about Aramis? There were two and we had to split up to follow 'em."

"Aramis hasn't returned to the garrison or sent word," Athos replied.

Porthos frowned at that. "I don't like it."

"You only have a tip that these men you were following are involved?"

"Yeah. But this one sure hasn't done anythin' suspicious."

Athos looked thoughtful for a moment. "Let's take him into custody and question him anyway."

Girart and Marcel exchanged a look at that. Athos wasn't one to typically bend the laws, but Porthos wasn't going to complain. He was irritated, hungry, and worried about Aramis. If he hadn't been so concerned with not losing this man, he would have gone back to that tavern keeper to demand more information.

The four musketeers headed across the street and barged into the brothel.

"Man came in 'ere hours ago," Porthos said, unable to keep the growl from his voice. "Black hair and beard. Where is he?"

The proprietor looked put-out but jerked her chin toward the stairs. "Giselle. Last room on the left."

They stormed up the steps to the second floor and down the hallway, bursting through the door. The occupants jumped and shrieked as they scrambled at the sheets to cover themselves up.

"I can't believe you've been at it this whole time," Porthos scowled.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man blustered.

"We are King's Musketeers," Athos said, unfazed by the situation. "And we have questions for you concerning the recent disappearances and murders of several Parisian citizens. So get dressed." He tipped his head toward the woman. "Apologies, madame."

She scrambled from the bed, pulling the rest of the sheets with her. Ducking her head in embarrassment, she fled the room. Athos grabbed the pair of gentleman's trousers from a nearby chair and tossed them at the now exposed man.

He sputtered as he fumbled to put them on. "This is an outrage! You can't just come in 'ere like this—"

"Answer our questions and we'll let you return to your activities," Athos interrupted.

"I don't know anything about disappearances or murders," he declared, but there was a shifty look in his eyes that Porthos immediately latched onto.

He took an imposing step forward. "I think you do. You an' that fellow you were wit' at the butcher's shop earlier."

The man's eyes widened a fraction.

"The King don't take kindly to his citizens bein' murdered," Porthos went on. He paused to crack his knuckles. "Neither do I."

"I had no part in that!" the man bleated. "That wasn't my job."

"What job?" Athos asked.

"The people."

"What about them?"

"For- for the sport."

Athos let out an audible sigh. "Start speaking in complete thoughts, monsieur, before we drag you to the Chatelet and continue our questioning with further assistance."

The man threw his hands up as though the gesture could ward them off. "No, wait, listen. I was only told to dispose of the bodies once the evening's entertainment was over. I didn't know they were going to be thrown into the pit at the start."

"Entertainment?" Porthos repeated incredulously.

"I didn't know!"

"The first time," Athos interjected. "But the second, third, sixth?"

The man dropped his gaze. "By then I was in too deep. You 'ave to understand."

"Where?" Porthos demanded.

"A storehouse on the edge of the city. I can take you there."

"Is that where your friend was headed?"

The man gave a jerky nod.

Porthos's stomach clenched, worry that Aramis had stumbled into something taking hold.

Athos stepped forward and grabbed their captive by the arm, yanking him out of bed. "We need to return to the garrison and muster a troop. Then we'll ride out to this storehouse." He caught Porthos's eye, both of them sharing a grim look that hoped their brother hadn't gotten in over his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically accurate animal cruelty in this chapter.

Aramis woke to a throbbing headache. It was a familiar experience, but never a pleasant one. As awareness of his limbs gradually crept in, he registered that he was sitting upright, chin dropped forward against his chest, and his arms were pulled straight down at his sides. The feel of coarse rope fiber and one side of wood confirmed he was in a spot of trouble. Doubly so because he hadn't had a chance to send word back to the garrison of  _where_  he'd gone.

Suppressing a moan, he tipped his head up and pried his eyes open. He was in some kind of office, tied to a chair. His weapons and doublet were spread on a nearby table and there were three men in the room examining them, one of whom was the one he'd followed here.

"He's a musketeer!" one of the others said angrily, shaking the leather coat and the pauldron clipped to the shoulder. "You led a musketeer right to us!"

"It was just the one! Obviously a troop of 'em or Red Guards haven't come down on us."

"Where's Flaubert?" the third asked sharply.

"With 'is girl. I told him we wouldn't have a job for him tonight, so it's not like he's gonna come by."

Well, that was unfortunate. Aramis's only hope had been for that other fellow to decide to join the party and lead Porthos to him. So now he was on his own and still uncertain of what exactly was going on.

"He's awake."

That snapped his attention back to his captors, who were suddenly zeroed in on him.

The third one stepped forward. "What is a King's Musketeer doing trespassing all the way out here?" he demanded.

Aramis angled his head back to look up at him. "Investigating a string of recent murders." He paused for effect. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now would you?"

The two behind him exchanged a flitting look.

"We need to leave," the second one said. "Pack it up and set up business in another city."

The business of…abducting people off the street and disposing of the bodies in the woods? There was something he was forgetting, a shadow at the edges of his mind flapping like an amorphous flag that couldn't quite take shape.

The man looming over Aramis gazed at him hard for several prolonged beats. Then he squared his shoulders, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, if we do have to pack up shop, a musketeer will make for some lively entertainment, fitting for one last night of sport."

Aramis frowned. Entertainment? Sport?

One of the men drew a knife and came forward to cut his bonds. He struggled as he was hauled to his feet, prepared to fight his way out, but the door was opened and he spotted more thugs in the hallway, apparently waiting.

"Throw him in the pit."

Aramis was manhandled down the hallway, and the vague images in his mind started to form a coherent whole as he remembered what he'd discovered before he'd been caught. In the next few steps, they emerged into the open warehouse. The balconies were full of people, men and women murmuring amongst each other in anticipation of the night's  _entertainment_.

The bear in the pit was awake, pacing irritably as men around the outside of the fence poked and prodded it with sticks, riling up its fury. It snapped its jaws at them and they jeered, the metal spikes keeping the beast at bay. Images of the bodies found in the woods flashed through Aramis's mind.

"No." He tried to wrench away, but the grips on his arms were unyielding as he was forced toward a gate in the fence. A sloping ramp led down to the bottom of the pit.

He finally managed to throw an elbow back into someone's face, but another man was there to take his place, twisting Aramis's arm behind his back until the joint almost popped out. He sucked in a gasp, still struggling, as the gate was opened. And then he was shoved through, tripping and rolling down the ramp to land at the bottom. The gate slammed shut and the lock clicked behind him.

The bear spun toward the sound of disturbance, maw opening wide as it roared. Aramis got to his feet, somewhere between a frantic recoil and deliberate rise. Perhaps in the wild not making any sudden movements would be the wise course of action, but this creature was already agitated. With another bellow, the bear broke into a lumbering gait.

Aramis scrambled backward, bumping into the wall. The metal spikes were just above his head, preventing any attempt at climbing out. The chain around the bear's back paw snapped taut, but the length still gave it enough space to reach him. Aramis darted around to avoid a swipe of claws. There was a staff on the ground, a weapon left over from a previous night perhaps. Aramis snatched it up, pivoting around in time to throw his arms up. The bear's jaws snapped around the staff instead of his throat. Slobber flew from the beast's mouth as it gnawed on the wood. It struck out with its front paw, claws slashing down Aramis's thigh and rending through fabric and flesh. His leg buckled.

The bear bore down on him, and he abandoned the staff in favor of rolling out of range. Cheers rippled through the crowd above. Aramis had no idea how he was supposed to get out of this. He had no weapon to kill the bear with. All he could do was stay alive in the hopes of…what? A rescue in the next few minutes was highly improbable.

The bear thrashed the staff in its mouth before flinging it away. Then it whipped toward its prey with a snarl. Aramis stumbled backward to the other side of the pit. His thigh was on fire and there was a warm wetness soaking through his pant leg. The bear's nostrils flared and it roared again, the skin around its maw flapping with the force of its bellow. The scent of blood was only driving it madder. It had tasted human flesh already, and there was no stopping an animal once it had that.

Aramis dove away from another charge. He snatched up the chain once it had some slack and attempted to use part of it as a whip to keep the bear at bay. The pain only enraged it further, such was the treatment it was used to. It lashed out with its claws again. Aramis caught the paw in the chain and tried to pin it down, but it was futile as the bear simply reared back, its bulk and brawn no match for any man.

Aramis stumbled as he retreated again. He was fading quickly, the repeated dodging and pain in his leg sapping his strength. He wasn't going to last much longer.

There was a commotion above, something that sounded like clashing steel, though the blood rushing in Aramis's ears made it difficult to tell for sure. But then he caught a glimpse of his brothers pouring into the warehouse and surrounding the pit.

The distraction cost him though.

The bear roared and swiped a massive paw that clobbered Aramis in the shoulder. Claws raked across flesh and the impact knocked him to the ground where he lay stunned, unable to process anything but the liquid fire in his neck and collar bone.

The bear shuffled in for the kill.

o.0.o

Athos led a group of musketeers through the darkened streets of Paris to a block of storehouses their prisoner, Flaubert, guided them to. The abandoned buildings had apparently been repurposed for bear-baiting, an unsavory form of entertainment but one that wasn't illegal. Kidnapping people off the streets and forcing them to be the bait, however, most certainly was.

"Last one at the end," Flaubert said, pulling up his horse.

Athos did the same, calling a stop to the troop as he surveyed the area. Light was flickering from within the building and there was a distant murmur of a crowd inside.

"No sign of Aramis," Porthos said in mounting agitation.

No. If the marksman had merely been keeping an eye on the place, he would have broken cover upon their arrival to come meet them.

"What's the plan?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Marcel, stay with Flaubert," Athos commanded. "The rest of us will go in the front. Everyone we find is to be put under arrest." He dismounted and drew his pistol, the others doing the same.

The musketeers stormed the building. A man at the door tried to raise the alarm, but his shout was drowned out by the raucous noise within and he was quickly knocked out. An animalistic roar rent the air. Athos charged forward, pulling up short just as the pit came into view and he caught sight of Aramis dodging a very large and very angry bear.

The tone of the crowd changed as soldiers swept through the room, chasing down those who stood along the periphery. Other musketeers blocked the stairways leading up to the balconies, preventing the spectators from attempting to escape.

Aramis must have noticed because his attention jerked just a fraction of a second, but in that moment, the bear slapped him down. Athos aimed his pistol and fired. The bear threw its head back with a raging bellow and snapped its jaws over its shoulder at him but quickly turned back to its prey. Athos drew his second and shot again, hitting the broad mass in the back. But the hit failed to bring the beast down.

Then Porthos and d'Artagnan were at the edges of the raised fence and shooting as well. Each bullet struck true and the bear flinched and roared with each one, yet still the animal seemed unstoppable.

Porthos drew his schiavona and launched himself over the fence, barely clearing the metal spikes to land inside the pit. He rolled into a crouch on the other side of the bear and roared like a beast himself before attacking.

D'Artagnan was frantically working to reload his pistol, and Athos briefly considered doing the same, but then he caught sight of a gate to the pit and dashed toward it instead. He wrenched it open and hurried down the ramp to get to Aramis. His heart leaped into his throat in a split moment where Porthos and the bear collided, but Porthos had run the creature through with his broadsword, and finally the great animal went limp, falling to the ground with a loud thud.

Athos dropped down next to Aramis, taking in the blood pooling beneath the marksman's shoulder from jagged gouges across his neck and collar bone. His eyes were at half mast and tremors were wracking his body.

"Im-p-pecable- timing," Aramis wheezed out in a stutter.

Athos took hold of the bottom of Aramis's shirt and ripped a large chunk of it off. "Apologies," he said. "I'll buy you a new one." He bunched it up and pressed it to the wounds to staunch the blood flow.

Aramis choked on a garbled sound of pain. "Was- ruined- anyway."

Porthos was at their side in the next moment, eyes wide with both worry and simmering rage. He cast his gaze around urgently, but then froze. Athos followed his line of sight up the ramp to where a man was trying to hide in a shadowed alcove. Athos didn't recognize him, but Porthos's cheeks puffed with fury.

Aramis flicked his gaze to the side, then back. "Go."

Porthos leaped to his feet and barreled up the ramp. The man broke from the alcove and attempted to flee.

D'Artagnan took Porthos's place, kneeling down and roving his eyes over Aramis with open concern. But he quickly turned his attention to Athos to report. "Four men were killed in the fight. We've arrested five others."

"How many are part of this operation?" Athos asked Aramis.

"'M not sure," he mumbled, eyelids fluttering.

Athos leaned forward and lightly slapped his cheek. "Stay awake."

Aramis's eyes shot open but immediately started drooping again. "People were…being taken…as baiters."

"We know. The man Porthos had followed told us everything."

"Mm. Suppose that means he won…the wager."

Athos could have rolled his eyes at that. "What wager?" he prompted, clasping the unwounded side of Aramis's neck with one hand and trying to keep him grounded while he maintained pressure on the wounds with the other.

"Who found something…first."

Athos did roll his eyes dryly then. "I'd say you both won."

"Mm."

"Shit, his leg," d'Artagnan exclaimed.

Athos looked down to find there were gashes on his thigh as well, packed and smeared with dirt so that they hadn't been as stark as the bright red flowing from his neck and shoulder.

"We need bandages!" he shouted up at anyone who was listening.

A few moments later Girart came jogging down the ramp with a medic bag. D'Artagnan quickly took it and fished out a roll of linen to wrap around the leg tightly.

"We'll need a cart," Athos told the other musketeer. "Send Marcel back to the garrison with Flaubert and have a physician meet us there." He glanced up at the spectator balconies, crowded with irate people pressed together like cattle. "And keep those people here until the magistrate can be called. It'll be up to the courts whether to charge them as coconspirators in this blood sport."

Girart nodded and left.

"Aramis," Athos said sternly, tapping his cheek again. "Stay awake."

Aramis coughed. "You try…evading a…bloodthirsty bear in…close quarters."

"I can't believe how hard it was to bring it down," d'Artagnan commented, flicking a wary look behind Athos to where the beast lay dead.

Athos found himself glancing over his shoulder to double check as well.

Footsteps on the ramp drew his attention as Porthos returned. Athos arched a brow in question. Porthos gave a clipped nod; that last man had been taken care of. Athos didn't ask for explanations. There'd be time to sort it all out later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a nice dose of h/c for the next, final chapter. ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the h/c for this one. ^_^

It was a slow journey back to the garrison by cart. D'Artagnan and Porthos went with Aramis while Athos remained at the storehouse to retain command of the scene. D'Artagnan wondered if so many arrests at one incident was a new kind of record. And if there were any high born to be found among that audience, well, the scandal would make things even more complicated.

Aramis had lost consciousness en route. D'Artagnan and Porthos had done their best to stop the bleeding on the way, but the wounds were a grisly mess. Once they entered the garrison courtyard, the two hopped out of the cart and unloaded the litter Aramis was already lying on. The surgeon was waiting when they carried him into the infirmary and transferred him to a long table. Captain Treville was there as well.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Bastards thought to make Aramis tonight's entertainment," Porthos growled.

"We only just got there in time," d'Artagnan added. "Athos stayed behind to oversee all the arrests."

The captain shook his head. "Doctor?" he queried.

The man in question tutted as he peeled the soiled bandages away from the wounds. "Most of this is too jagged for needlework. All I can do is clean and bandage them, and even then, the risk of infection or disease from an animal attack like this is great."

"I'll have extra wine brought in," Treville said, and then excused himself.

"Young man," the doctor said, gesturing to d'Artagnan. "If I could trouble you to boil some water."

"Of course." He leaped at the opportunity to help, hurrying from the room to the kitchen where he could quickly heat some water in the cooking hearth.

When he returned, the doctor had cut away Aramis's shirt from the neck wounds and was currently doing the same to the breeches and underclothes to expose the leg.

"Well," the man fussed, "I dare say the dirt packed in here helped restrict the flow of blood. But it will be an arduous task cleaning it all out."

D'Artagnan grimaced at the thought, but set the bowl of water nearby and stepped close to the table. "What can I do?"

The physician gave him an appraising look before apparently deeming him competent with a curt nod. "Flush the leg with wine, then water until it runs clean. Then I'll debride whatever's left." Done with his instructions, he moved back to the wounds on Aramis's neck and shoulder.

D'Artagnan swallowed hard as he picked up a flask of wine and poured it over the ragged leg. The muscle jerked in response, but Aramis didn't regain consciousness. D'Artagnan threw a look at Porthos, who silently moved to stand by in case the marksman did wake and needed to be held down.

D'Artagnan switched to water, pouring it over the claw marks in stages as murky red soaked into the torn breeches and spilled onto the table. He repeated the process nearly six times before it started to run clear.

"Okay," he said, looking up at the surgeon who was finishing up with the shoulder.

The doctor nodded and beckoned for him to take his place. D'Artagnan moved to Aramis's head and searched the lax face for signs of wakening. Tremors of pain occasionally tightened the lines around his mouth and eyes, but he remained out. It was probably for the best.

The surgeon used his tools to finish the debridement of the leg, then finished off with another soak of wine. "Now bandages. And then I'm afraid the rest is up to your friend."

"He'll be fine," Porthos said. "He's too stubborn to die."

D'Artagnan quirked his mouth at that; there was some truth in it.

Aramis's shirt was in tatters, so they proceeded to just cut the rest of it off. Porthos held him up as the doctor tightly wrapped his neck and shoulder in layer after layer of linen bandages. D'Artagnan made sure to cover the recently cleaned thigh wound before removing the dirty breeches. He left the braes, as they were mostly intact save for the tears and blood near the wound. The doctor wrapped his thigh next, and once all that was done, they moved Aramis to one of the beds.

D'Artagnan didn't know whether Treville had been waiting outside the whole time or he just had a sixth sense about it, but he came back into the infirmary at that moment and the physician went to debrief him. Porthos had settled in a chair by Aramis's side, but d'Artagnan needed some air after all that. He'd seen Aramis stitch up a life threatening injury on Porthos and make it seem like just another day's work. But participating himself was anything but.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped into the empty courtyard. Anyone not on duty at the palace had gone on the raid, and who knew how long they'd be busy cleaning up after that.

"D'Artagnan."

He jerked his head up at Constance's voice and saw her coming through the archway. She still looked pale with dark crescents under her eyes that bespoke of poor sleep and a grieving heart.

"Constance, hey," he said, hurrying to meet her.

She offered him a wan quarter of a smile. "Where is everyone? Have- have you had any progress with…?"

"Actually, yes. We found the people responsible. They- they were taking people off the street to use as…" He grimaced. "Baiters," he finished. "For bears."

Constance's eyes widened in horror. "Who would do such a thing?" she exclaimed.

"People with no conscience. But we caught them all. Athos is still at the scene trying to sort it all out. They won't hurt anyone else ever again."

Her eyes welled with tears. "Oh, Eustace. 'E must have been so frightened."

"Hey." D'Artagnan took her into his arms. He couldn't offer her any words of comfort, for the harsh reality was it had been a horrible way to die. "I'm sorry."

He held her for a few moments before she lifted her head.

"If Athos is still at the scene, what are you doing here?"

"Aramis was wounded. The doctor just finished tending to him."

She quickly wiped at her eyes. "I'd like to see 'im."

D'Artagnan knew that was more demand than request and silently escorted her into the infirmary where the doctor was packing up his supplies.

"Madame Bonacieux," Treville greeted.

Constance frowned as she took in Aramis's condition. "What on earth happened?"

D'Artagnan hesitated. "He, um, ended up in the pit with the bear."

"What!"

"He'll be fine," d'Artagnan repeated Porthos's earlier declaration.

"If infection doesn't set in," the doctor corrected. "I've left a pain draught if needed when he wakes. Send for me if he develops a fever." With that, the doctor left.

"I'll stay and help tend to him," Constance volunteered.

"You don't have to—" d'Artagnan began, but the captain interrupted.

"If you're certain it's no trouble, that would be helpful, Madame Bonacieux. Porthos, d'Artagnan, as much as I know you'd rather be here, there is a lot to take care of with all these arrests and reports to be made."

Porthos did look disgruntled by the veiled order, but he nevertheless stood up and shuffled away from the bed.

Constance put a hand on his arm as he passed. "I'll watch over him."

He gave her a nod in return. D'Artagnan smiled her way before following the captain out. The sooner they cleaned up this mess, the sooner they could get back.

o.0.o

Constance supposed she should have sent word to her husband of where she was and her intentions to stay, but Bonacieux had been preoccupied lately and rather discomfited in his handling of her grief. For all he knew, she was likely with Eustace's family while they were in mourning.

Since Aramis was unconscious and Constance disliked being idle, she took it upon herself to straighten up and organize the items in the garrison's infirmary, pausing periodically to check on the patient and make sure a fever wasn't setting in. Outside was unusually quiet, and Constance would think her and Aramis the only two left in the whole garrison if it weren't for the occasional movements of the stable boy and old Serge.

An irrational part of her worried for d'Artagnan. Even though it sounded as though the criminals had been apprehended, the idea of having to deal with men so heinous they would commit such atrocious acts against their fellow man turned her stomach. But d'Artagnan was with Athos and Porthos and Captain Treville, and so there was no reason to worry.

A soft noise from the bed drew her out of her morose thoughts and she quickened to the chair set beside it. Aramis's face scrunched up as he shifted, a moan rumbling in his throat.

"Easy now," she soothed, reaching out to lightly touch his forearm. "You're in the garrison infirmary."

His brow furrowed and his eyelids fluttered open. "Constance?" His gaze lolled around the room.

"Everyone's still busy with the arrests," she explained. "I offered to sit with you until they get back."

"Your face is certainly a more angelic sight to wake up to than Porthos's," he said before his breath caught with a pained grimace.

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She reached behind her for the pain draught the doctor had left. "Here, somethin' for the pain." With her other hand, she lifted his head and helped him drink.

He only took two sips before pulling away with a grunt. His gaze drifted down to the bandages across his torso and he lifted his opposite arm to reach up toward them.

Constance caught his hand and guided it back down. "Leave that. The doctor said it couldn't be stitched, so he had to bind it tightly. There's still risk of infection."

Aramis hummed and closed his eyes.

She prodded his uninjured shoulder. "You should eat somethin'. Then you can rest more."

He opened his eyes to narrow his gaze at her. "I take it back. You're not an angel but a devil woman."

She huffed. "I'd slap you if you weren't wounded. Now come on. Serge left some broth and you need to keep your strength up."

Without waiting for consent, she stood and slipped her arms under his back. It went less smoothly than if one of the men had been around to do it, but she nevertheless got an extra pillow stuffed between Aramis and the headboard so he could recline at a slight angle. She could tell he was trying to be stoic in the face of the pain, though whether out of pride or deference to her, she couldn't be sure.

She handed him the bowl of warm broth and watched carefully as he kept his wounded arm tucked close to his chest and lifted the bowl with his other. Rather than attempting to use the spoon, he merely drank from the lip. Again, he only managed a couple of sips before he had to stop, eyes squeezing shut under a wave of pain.

"I'm sorry," Constance blurted.

He shot her a bewildered look. "Whatever for?"

"If I hadn't come to you all, you never would've been put in such danger."

His lips quirked at her and he lowered the bowl to his lap. "Constance, it's our duty to protect the people of France. The disappearances would have come to our attention eventually. Think of the lives you saved by telling us sooner than that."

She heaved a sigh. "I know you're right. Still…"

Aramis smiled. "We would never let anything happen to d'Artagnan," he promised.

She ignored the insinuation by drawing her shoulders back. "I worry about the rest of you too, you know," she said sternly. "And what were you thinking taking on a bear?"

He leaned his head back against the pillows. "I'm afraid they gave me little choice in the matter. I just thank God the others arrived in time." His expression fell and he met her eyes. "My deepest condolences for your friend, Constance."

She felt her eyes grow wet and a lump constrict her throat. Forcing a smile onto her face, she reached out to pat his arm. "I'm just glad you didn't join 'im."

The door creaked open and she looked over her shoulder as the rest of the famed Inseparables entered, including d'Artagnan.

"You look better," Porthos commented with a grin.

"How are you feeling?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Alive," Aramis replied. "What happened back at the storehouse?"

"We finally finished all the arrests," Athos answered. "Flaubert, the man Porthos had followed when you split up, has identified all the main players and they're all accounted for. The magistrate has filed charges against every spectator in the crowd that night as well, though there's no way to prove who was there on previous nights when victims were thrown into the pit."

Constance's stomach clenched.

"Yeah, but those who enjoyed the sport would have likely been there for every one," Porthos put in. "An' it won't happen again. Unlike Bonnaire, these folks have nothin' to offer the King or Cardinal to buy their way out."

Constance frowned, unsure exactly what he was referring to, though she didn't like the sound of it. "So, it's over?" she asked.

Athos nodded.

She let out a breath of relief. "Alright then, you all can leave now. And you," she said, turning to Aramis. "Finish that broth so you can get some more rest."

"You'd make a fine Mother Superior, has anyone ever told you that?" he rejoined with a smirk.

"Don't think I won't remember to slap you once you're better."

Porthos snorted and started toward the door. "Good luck, mate."

"Do let us know if you need anything," Athos said, following him out.

"Maybe I could stay…?" d'Artagnan offered, but Constance waved sharply at him.

"Shoo. This is a house of healing, not loitering." Or flirting, which was where she was sure his mind had gone. Hers too if she were honest.

"But…"

She backed him toward the door and gave him a playful shove. "Go."

His eyes twinkled before he finally left and Constance turned back toward her patient. She shook her head fondly when she found Aramis slumped back against the pillows, the half-empty bowl of broth slack in his hand and almost spilling onto the sheets. She scooped it up and set it safely on the table, then pulled the blanket up to drape over him. Her hand brushed against his brow to check for fever, pleased to find none.

Then she settled in for another silent vigil. Because as she'd grown closer to d'Artagnan, she'd realized he came with three additional brothers, who by association were becoming hers as well.

And she didn't mind it at all.


End file.
